Rooke lies as still as death, caught securely in my arms when the last of her strength finally failed her at the steps of the castle. Her cheek presses firmly against the plate of armor coveringmy chest, her heartbeat a steady drumming in my ears that I’ve never been able to ignore, the dark spill of her hair cascading over my arms where it’s come loose from the leather cord that secured her braid as she fought Kharl Balzog’s army.
I hold the blessed mate given to me by the Fates, one whom I’ve scorned at every opportunity, and now I find myself at the mercy of every one of her warnings, the consequences of my hatred and disgust for her people coming to call.
Yregar’s courtyard falls deathly quiet around me.
Roan is far too adept at reading me to miss the Fates-altered state I’m in, and with centuries of his own experience of mated compulsions, he’s quick to intervene.
Calling out to the soldiers in my stead, his voice is little more than a buzzing in my ears over the possession driving me into the castle. “You already have your orders, get moving. There’s nothing to stop Kharl from sending another battalion to Yregar, and we need to be ready to defend our walls once more.”
Stepping closer to my side, he uses the width of his shoulders to shield Rooke’s unconscious form from the eyes of our soldiers. It should be a welcome relief, and yet the ferocity that’s taken hold of me is incensed at his nearness to us both. The churning in my gut grows more violent, the seething fury at this entire mess and at myself filling my mind until no amount of blinking can clear the rage-red from my vision.
Roan’s stance shifts slightly, as though he’s preparing for an inevitable blow, but when his gaze flicks down to Rooke he curses softly.
“Get her inside and away from the witcheswane, Soren. We have no healers to aid her,” he murmurs in the old language.
Witcheswane.
Cursing so viciously under my breath that the fae folk surrounding me in the courtyard all scatter like startled colts, I shift Rooke higher into my arms and storm the castle steps, butthe situation doesn’t get any better inside the marble walls. The stink of the oil coats everything around us, me included.
Every entryway is guarded by it, and with every turn I take deeper into the castle, I find more of it poured. My orders to protect all those sheltering within in the event the inner wall fell has ensured there’s no safe place for the witch who saved us all.
I take the stairs three at a time, and the castle comes alive around me with calls for aid to clear a path, because I won’t wait for the time it’ll take to clean away the oil. My feet slip as I reach the landing, my grip on Rooke tightening to keep her secure in my arms, but it doesn’t rouse her. The sickening feeling in my gut grows, the haze deepening until I can barely see through the blood-red clouding my vision. The stink of the witcheswane is consuming, cloying, sticking to the back of my throat, and it’s killing her. She might be dying right now in my arms, and there’snothingI can do to stop it.
This area of the castle is more drenched than any other, and not because it houses my own chambers, but because a few doors down lie my cousin and her infant son. I’ve seen thousands of witches die a writhing and screaming death thanks to the oil of the witcheswane, and the haze grows deeper in my mind as the image is replaced with Rooke’s own death.
My stomach lurches violently.
“It's everywhere, cousin,” Tyton murmurs bleakly, an echo of my own frustrations. With every step, the damage blooms farther across Rooke’s face.
There’s no time to hesitate.
I stride toward the Snowsong chambers, ignoring my cousin's scathing curses even as Roan calls out to me once more, “It’s even stronger down there, Soren, what are you thinking!”
I don't bother adjusting my hold on Rooke’s unconscious body as I pause at the doors, no guards on the outside but a hive of soldiers and maids within, and I call out, “The siege is overand Kharl’s army is dead. Send Firna to my rooms and get the maids cleaning the witcheswane away!Now, Airlie!”
When I turn back to my own chambers, Tauron is already there, shoving the doors open himself, his hands slick with the amber oil as they come away from the wood. When I snarl in his direction, he bows his head and tucks his hands behind his back as he presses himself to one door to form a shield between Rooke and the offending substance. If only it were that simple, but his actions mark the shift in my household.
My chambers are off-limits even to my family, with only minimal staff allowed past the reception rooms to clean, but within minutes there are dozens of maids in the living area, Firna herself in the center of them all, her eyes sharp and her words stern as she directs her staff. When her gaze flicks to Rooke’s form in my arms, her mouth tightens and her commands grow more urgent, and the maids become frenzied in their efforts to scrub the poison away.
Roan sighs heavily when Airlie appears, putting up a hand as if he can stop her interference, but my cousin is a force of nature all her own.
“There isn't any witcheswane in here, Firna. The soldiers coated only the doorways. Soren doesn't keep anything worth protecting, and there’s only the oil spread by our footsteps.”
She turns to look at Rooke before her gaze snaps up to mine, her no-nonsense scowl faltering at my unchecked rage, before she says carefully, “You need to put Rooke down so we can get her out of her robes, Soren. You need to give her to me to be cleaned up while you scrub the poison from yourself. Her life, and your fate, depend on it.”
My hands only tighten further around my mate, my lip curling into a sneer in Airlie’s direction. For once even Roan doesn't argue with the savagery I direct at his beloved wife,but Airlie stands tall and true, unaffected as she meets my ire unflinchingly.
“Whatever it is you’re feeling, it can wait until Rooke is safe. Your clothing is covered in poison, cousin, and it’s seeping into hers from your hold. You’re hurting her.”
Her words pierce the savage haze of my mind, and my gaze drops back down to where Rooke’s reddened skin grows deeper and angrier where she’s pressed against my chest.
Thousands of witches’ faces flash into my mind, all those I’ve seen die from the poison of the weed so toxic to their kind, and a cold sweat breaks out over my forehead at the horrifying imagery. Bile burns at the base of my throat, my head swimming, and it’s almost impossible to grapple with the maelstrom inside me. Almost.
Ignoring the screaming joy of the Fates at our connection, I force myself to step into the room next to mine and gently place my Fates-blessed mate onto the bed there. The stark, white linens are instantly ruined by the filth of the battle, but it’s the smears of the amber liquid the moment I lay her down that sends a bolt of panic into my bloodstream. She’s covered in poison.
My limbs grow cumbersome with the tension filling me, my feet planting themselves firmly in place until it’s impossible to move away from the bed no matter how much sense my cousin might be speaking to me. The urge to shield her from their view, to covet and hoard her for myself is almost impossible to overcome, only her dire condition that forces my Unseelie high fae mate urges into submission.
Firna edges her way carefully around the bed, murmuring quietly to the maid at her side as she gives firm orders for supplies, and it’s only once I’m sure there’s no danger to Rooke in the room that I fix my own gaze onto to her once more.
